He whittled me down
word by word to a concept
small enough for him to understand,
but leaving just enough space to hold a rage
only to be described by words
I am not yet allowed to know.
The glitter I painted
onto my eyelids earlier that evening
perform obedience so well,
I make a mental note to give them
a standing ovation as soon as I am out of sight.
The sparkle catches his eye and
distracts from my change in posture, not that he would notice anyway.
He cut me down piece by piece.
Bite-sized.
More palatable to his perception and
digestible to his dignity.
Keeping me tucked in the back of his cupboard,
drowning in preservatives.
Collecting more dust by the day.
Sometimes I can see him peaking between the cans of Campbell’s Soup
just to be sure I’m still there, waiting.
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